


One

by OhAine



Series: Simple Chemistry [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clueless John, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 23:19:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15784194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: “Why would you care who Greg was going on a date with?”





	One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glitterkitty4ever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterkitty4ever/gifts).



> Gifted to Lorianna because she's so amazing (also, L, this isn't your prompt but rather something to plug the gap while I slowly work on a full size fic).
> 
> Set at the end of TLD, after Sherlock's birthday, but before the Eurus reveal, while Sherlock was still recovering and his friends were keeping an eye on him. Inspired by the scene in The Six Thatchers where Sherlock tells Lestrade that his lunch date isn't 'the one.' Before S4 aired, I lived in fear that Mofftiss would pair Molly off with Lestrade...it seems Sherlock worried about that too.
> 
> Un beat'd, please forgive my errs. Thanks to likingthistoomuch who assured me it's fit for public consumption. I own nothing...

 

“I’ve been thinking—”

“Careful, John,” Sherlock smirked. “While I encourage the activity in principle, you are decidedly out of practice.”

“Ha. Funny.” John folded his arms over his chest, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes as he sank further back into his battered old fireside chair.

Sherlock tipped his head in acknowledgement as he too settled into his own chair’s soft leather cushions. “Comedic timing is one of my talents.”

“Oh, comedy? Is that what that was?” The corner of John’s mouth quirked up, “It seemed more like deflection, to me.”

“Hardly a need when I’ve been threatened with such a dull instrument.”

“Deflection. Again.”

Sherlock draped one elegantly trousered leg over the other and steepled his fingers at his chin, somewhat amused by the good doctor’s persistence. “Very well,” he said. “If there’s no dissuading you from putting yourself at the mercy of your own stupidity. Continue.”

“I’ve been thinking about Lestrade.”

“I see,” Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “A surprise to be sure after your protestations to the contrary. Still, Mrs Hudson will be ecstatic about your epiphany _:_ she’s got fifty pounds on you in some sort of pool she’s running with Mrs Turner.”

“There’s that comedic timing thing. Good one.”

Sherlock half grunted, half laughed.

“You’re close though. It _is_ Greg’s love life I’ve been thinking about. Or lack thereof, I should say.”

“You’re developing an obsession with the romantic entanglements of others that’s bordering on mania. It’s beginning to worry me.”

“If anything, Sherlock, I’d say it’s you who’s a bit obsessed.”

“What evidence do you have, _Doctor_ , to support that deduction?”

“Couple of months back, Greg came ‘round with a bag full of broken plaster, d’you remember? The smashed bust of Maggie Thatcher?”

“Yes.”

“You seemed very interested in his lunch date, that day. The brunette—”

“—The forensics officer. And?”

“You told him she wasn’t _‘The One.’_ That she wasn’t right for him.”

“She wasn’t.”

“How’d you know? You’d made up the bit about her having three kids in Rio. The forensics thing was probably just a guess based on the smell of formaldehyde. Turns out you didn’t have a clue who she was, yet you – a man who says he has no interest in romance or affairs of the heart – went to the trouble of making up a story just so that you could stop a decent bloke from going out on date, even though it’s obvious he wants to settle down again.” John pinned Sherlock with an icy blue stare. “Now why would you do that?”

The smirk fell away from Sherlock’s lips and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“I think,” John sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees, “that you _thought_  you knew who she was and for some reason it bothered you.”

“Don’t be absurd.” He stood, buttoning his jacket, and turned his back to John. He picked up his violin and began plucking at the strings.

“Why would you care who Greg was going on a date with?”

“I wouldn’t.” Sherlock shouldered his violin and approached the window, staring down into the street.

“Except you did.”

Sherlock drew his bow over the violin’s strings, a sharp, irritated noise, and continued to watch the taxis come and go on Baker Street. “That’s it then? The great mystery you’ve been pondering? It’s as I feared. Your once limited deduction skills have become non-existent.”

John shrugged. “I’m not so sure. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

Sherlock quarter turned in his direction, still keeping his window-side vigil, “Isn’t your time here up? Go home to Rosie. I’m sure it’ll be a welcome relief for you to have someone whose intellect only marginally outperforms your own to carry on your inane conversations with.”

John grinned at the back of Sherlock’s head but checked his watch. “Actually I probably should, it’s getting late. The night shift will be here soon anyway.”

Conversation at an end, John stood and threw his coat on, no goodbyes to be said: Sherlock had already gone, lost to that place in his mind that he seemed to frequent more and more just lately.

The screeching of the violin ushered John down the stairs and onto the footpath outside, but as he crossed the road and headed for the corner of the street the sound turned to something gentler, light and wistful. Curiosity made John look back toward his old flat.

At 221B’s living room window Sherlock stood, a soft expression on his face, eyes sparkling, smiling as he played. He followed his friend’s line of sight to a black cab that had pulled up outside, and watched as Molly paid the driver then turned toward the sweet melody that drifted from above.

A ridiculously romantic notion overtook him then: that Sherlock seemed to be performing for Molly, for an audience of just one.

John laughed at his own idiocy, shook off his foolishness, but still… something niggled at him all the way home: the feeling that he’d caught a glimpse of something. Something that he wasn’t meant to see and that he didn’t quite understand.


End file.
